


Live a Little

by risotto



Category: Free!
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/pseuds/risotto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, two captains run into each other at a sporting goods store on a Sunday...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For kinkmeme prompt: "Anything with Seijuurou and Makoto, whether it's fluff or smut."

Makoto's debating between a navy dragsuit and a black and blue jammer, wondering if Rei would like either, when it suddenly occurs to him that this is wrong. It's Sunday. He's the captain of the swim club—not the errand boy. Surely there's a better way for someone to waste his only day off than wandering inside a sporting goods store?

He gives up with a sigh and tosses both suits into his shopping basket. One's for Rei, the other for Haruka. Kou's hastily compiled list didn't specify it but he's sure Haru wouldn't mind the extra suit. He shuffles dutifully onto the next aisle, hunting for the remainder of his list. Some earplugs, chlorine-removing shampoo, suit sealant, and...

He peers down at bubbly orange characters. _Cute towels :)_

Nagisa. He sighs again.

"Tachibana?"

Makoto's eyes flutter to his left. Deep red hair and golden eyes and skin, made all the more bold by a black tee shirt and black track pants. Seijuurou Mikoshiba. Captain of the Samezuka Academy swim team.

Without invitation, he comes over, shopping cart in tow. It's empty save for a large white box of disposable swim caps. "How's it going?"

Shamelessly, he peeks down into Makoto's basket. "Stocking up on the weekly supplies, eh?"

"Something like that," Makoto says with a forced grin. Though he's smiling on the outside, inside he's panicking. Weekly?

"Is Gou-kun with you?"

"No, she's not. It's just me." Though he'd bet the club's budget if Kou was there, she'd be putting the stability of the glass fixtures to the test.

A crestfallen look flashes over Seijuurou's features and Makoto immediately regrets even saying anything. Thankfully, it's a brief thing, because in the next instant, the redhead's expression shifts to something more relaxed.

"This your first supply run?" he asks.

Curious, Makoto tilts his head, looks back and forth between his basket and Seijuurou's knowing smirk. "How could you tell?"

"Your stuff says it all. For starters, what you really want to get are the big bottles of the shampoo instead of the little ones." He says _the shampoo_ like it's a secret lingo between _them_ and Makoto finds himself rubbing at his nape.

Seijuurou doesn't sense his discomfort. Or if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just shrugs and continues, "I mean, you guys are going to go through them like...well, water, so you might as well stock up with as much as you can."

It makes sense. Perfect sense, actually, and Makoto looks over his list, calculates the club's paltry budget and wonders if he can make a sacrifice here or there on the list without incurring his club's wrath. He can't.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou invades more of his personal space and plucks up the bottle and skims the label. "Reflect H2O?"

"It's...the best kind?" Makoto offers, though he's obviously unsure. All he knows is that it's Haru's favorite brand so, naturally, it must be the best.

"Yeah, to burn a hole in your pocket with maybe. Come on."

Nonplussed, Makoto follows him to several aisles near the back of the store. He notices Seijuurou tends to hunch over the cart as he moves along and, when he straightens to look at the top row of a shelf, he's rather tall—taller than Makoto himself—with the lean and long limbs typical of a swimmer. He also notices how Seijuurou's shirt rides up and exposes the defined lines of his tanned back when he bends over to look at the bottom row.

Suddenly it's too warm and the shelf behind them is very interesting.

"Gotcha, you sneaky little bastard."

Busted. Makoto freezes, reddening. "P-Pardon?"

Seijuurou's crouched and half-struggling to pull a large bottle out from the very back of the bottom shelf. "Someone thought it'd be hilarious to hide this behind all the bottles of suit cleaner. Must've been one of those punks from Ishikawa."

Ah, Ishikawa High School. A team better known for their practical jokes and internet trolling than their actual swimming ability. Iwatobi's managed to avoid their antics so far but Makoto knows it's only a matter of time before the stink bombs and prank calls start rolling in.

"Here you go." Seijuurou hands him the large and heavy sixty four-ounce container that looks more like industrial floor cleaner than actual shampoo. "When in doubt, go generic. Same results, half the price."

Makoto blanches at the price tag. "That's too much."

A frown makes its way over Seijuurou's face and for a moment there, Makoto thinks he may have offended him. It fades seconds later, though, replaced by an easygoing grin. Huh. "You'll be spending at least three times more than that if you buy the same amount of Reflect. And let's not forget sticky fingers and people losing the bottles. Having it in one big vat makes it easier to control distribution."

Seijuurou dispenses wisdom in an easy, matter-of-fact way that Makoto finds refreshing. He's not very condescending despite being from a prestigious school and rival team. He's also got a point. A very good point. Nagisa alone could put the club in immense debt in a month at the rate he went through shampoo. Still, it's a lot of money.

"I don't know," Makoto says with an apologetic frown, "it still seems kind of pricy."

"Use your discount card."

Embarrassed, Makoto averts his gaze. Why oh why did they make _him_ captain? "I—we...don't have one," he says lamely.

Seijuurou shrugs, digs in his pocket, and hands him a plastic card. "Use mine."

Makoto eyes it in his palm like it might sprout a head and bite him. "A-Are you sure...?"

"From one captain to another, trust me on this. You're gonna need all the help you can get." The redhead playfully jabs at his shoulder. "Go ahead."

Arms flat on his sides, Makoto bends over at the waist with practiced grace, bowing deeply. "Thank you very much."

It's nothing for him to thank the other captain—in fact, Makoto laments not being able to do anything else for him in return—yet the gesture seems to make every capillary in Seijuurou's face burst. "Hey, hey, n-no need for that. C'mon, I'm not some salary man—!"

Makoto just chuckles.

"Now then," Seijuurou leans back over his cart's handlebar in that same lazy pose from before. His grin towards Makoto is even lazier. "What else do you have to get?"

\--

With Seijuurou's advice and his card, it doesn't take long—barely another twenty minutes—for Makoto to gather up all the things from the list and check out.

"I can't thank you enough for your help, Mikoshiba-buchou." They're standing out by the cart corral in the parking lot when Makoto hands back the discount card. Their fingers brush against each other in the exchange. Makoto blinks and goes warm; Seijuurou busies himself with his own purchases.

"Not a problem," Seijuurou says as he hauls his white box of caps onto one broad shoulder. "What kinda asshole captain would I be if I was unsportsmanlike?"

Point there. Makoto would have done the same. "The captain from Ishikawa, I'd wager," he quips.

Seijuurou lets out a loud barking laugh. A woman loading her SUV jumps up with a start and yelp at it, which only seems to crank up the volume and hilarity. "Ooh, nice one. Two points for you. You'll fit right in with the other captains."

That's the most reassuring thing Makoto's heard in weeks. He actually believes it.

"Where's your ride?" Seijuurou asks.

"I'm taking the train."

"That blows. You want a ride?"

Makoto loops the handles of several bags through one hand while the other hefts the heavy bottle of shampoo. The station's not far on foot. Though it is Sunday and the train heading back home on a reduced schedule leaves much to be desired. He loves his cozy oceanside town as much as the next person but he really, really hates its train system sometimes.

Still, it feels like he's imposing on the other captain's generosity somehow. Seijuurou's already given him plenty of help and advice, all without asking for one wit in return. "I...don't know."

"Come on. Live a little." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he says it and Makoto can't find it in himself to argue. Same as before: when Seijuurou begins to walk, the other boy follows. "A nice day like today and you wanna lug all them bags to a station, wait for who knows how long for a long train ride with a shitty AC, only to walk again?"

And, yet again, more wisdom disperses from Fountain Seijuurou.

The bags _are_ a little heavy...

Makoto sighs with a smile. "Sure."  
　  
\--  
　  
Surprising to absolutely no one, Seijuurou's car is red.

A bold red Toyota Yaris hatchback that smells, faintly, of women's perfume. It looks a lot smaller from the outside with ample room for all their stuff in the trunk but not enough for Makoto's long legs up front. He's practically up on the dash; his knees are almost to his chest, torso and limbs bunched in like an accordion.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou's in the driver's seat, comfortable as can be. His fingers are lingering at the key in the ignition when he spots Makoto's position. "Sorry. I forgot—I don't get passengers as big as me very often. Here..."

Makoto opens his mouth to correct him on how he's actually smaller than Seijuurou is and _it's okay, I'm used to being packed in like a sardine in a compact car,_ and _it's no big deal, I'm thankful for the ride, what kind of mileage do you get on this, anyway?_ But the words are trapped tight in his throat in the next instant.

Because Seijuurou's face is in his lap.

It takes Makoto a few more seconds to remember to breathe; even longer to look down and realize that Seijuurou isn't going in for the kill, so to speak, and actually has his face turned toward the dash, away from his crotch, with one hand digging beneath the seat...

"Hang on. Gotta find the..."

There's a loud _click_ and Makoto's seat slides back all the way. The oxygen returns to his lungs and brain. His heart stops pounding in his ears.

Seijuurou's sitting up and looking at him with a tipped brow. "There. Better?"

Unable to talk, Makoto just nods several times and shifts around in his seat until he's comfortable—well, as comfortable as he can get after something like that. He makes very sure to fold his hands over his lap just _so_. Nothing happened and nothing stirred within him _yet_ but an ounce of prevention and all that.

The engine roars to life, as does the radio. At full volume on track two of a Girls Generation CD.

Seijuurou, face redder than his own hair, brakes hard in mid-reverse, slams his fingers against the deck, and turns the damn thing off after cursing it to hell and back. "Er. In case you can't tell already...this isn't really my car."

Of course. It was too good to be true. Thinking of police sirens and disapproving frowns and jail cells, Makoto gasps and Seijuurou, seeing what's sure to be a horrified expression, almost sputters. "But don't worry! It's not hot. It's actually my sister's. She works for an airline and lets me borrow it."

Oh.

That explains the CD. Maybe. And the perfumey smell. Makoto idly wonders if that's Seijuurou or his sister's doing. And, if the latter, what Seijuurou himself smells like...

They pull out onto a busy thoroughfare almost too quickly. While trying to merge to the freeway exit, Seijuurou speeds up so close onto a pick-up, Makoto finds himself white-knuckling the armrest and bracing for impact. There's no accident. No tires squealing. No one sailing through the windshield. Nothing. Although Seijuurou does angrily lay on the horn when the pick-up's driver brake-checks him several feet ahead.

Oh, god, they're going to die. Right there, on the freeway.

Makoto gasps and Seijuurou snorts a laugh. "Chill, man. You're in safe hands," he proudly declares, "I've been driving for a while now and haven't once yet got into an accident."

It's hard to see how that's even possible. The brush with the pick-up wasn't a fluke because, as it turns out, Seijuurou drives in a way that Makoto can't describe other than _like a complete and utter maniac._ Aside from the fact that he forgets to signal half the time and makes last-minute turns and lane changes the other half, Seijuurou doesn't seem to understand that speed limits are law, _not suggestions_. Cars, vans, semis—everyone's game for a tongue-lashing if they cut him off (although it's fair game if he cuts them off). And heaven help anyone ahead of him in the fast lane.

They finally get to a cruising pace on a mostly clear road. Makoto double checks his seatbelt twice. Just in case.

Despite all of this hair-raising terror, Seijuurou himself is as cool as a cucumber, one hand on the gear shift and the other on the steering wheel, seemingly oblivious to the other drivers honking and cursing at him. With bright hair against the backdrop of the vibrant sun and ocean beyond his window, he actually looks _warm_ and inviting, in a peaceful sort of way. It's rude, and he knows it, but Makoto can't help but stare at him when he's like that. In awe.

After a while, Seijuurou notices and glances over, making eye contact. A grin quirks up a corner of the redhead's mouth and slightly crinkles his golden eyes in a way that makes something sweet and warm surge in the pit of Makoto's belly. His lips part and there's the barest flash of pearly white teeth and for a fleeing moment, Makoto wonders if they're sharp like Rin's.

And then Seijuurou leadfoots the brake at a red light to avoid hitting the minivan in front of them. The tires don't screech but the lingering stench of burnt rubber and the force which they both slam back into their seats with is enough to remind Makoto this isn't just a peaceful Sunday drive with a gorgeous view and driver.

"You okay?"

Groaning and breathless, Makoto nods, even though he can't see straight. In the aftermath of everything, Makoto realizes his hand had instinctively clutched the nearest thing. Something warm and solid.

Seijuurou's hand on the gear shift.

"Sorry," Makoto mumbles and starts to pulls his hand away. The tan one beneath it shifts and comes over his, offering a reassuring squeeze.

There's a deep flush of color to Seijuurou's face when he looks between their joined hands and his trembling passenger, and Makoto isn't sure if it's because of the near-brush with death or from what was happening before it or now. "It's all right," the redhead says after focusing his gaze back on the road. "You can...keep it there. Um, if you want."

Makoto does, never once moving it for the remainder of their trip.

\--

Save for a few rounds of small talk to ask about directions and an upcoming scrimmage, the ride home is quiet. Seijuurou drops him off down the hill from Haru's place, helps him unload his stuff, and turns that newly familiar shade of red when Makoto bows to him in thanks again.

Makoto waves him off and waits until the Yaris is down the street and out of his sight before heading up the steps to Haru's house. The entire club's in the main room, mulling over something and eating grilled mackerel with rice when he wanders in.

They're surprised at his haul, impressed at how he's managed to get the most quality items while staying within budget. Makoto doesn't say he had a little help. Doesn't even mention the ride home—which makes everything from earlier seem kind of...clandestine and forbidden. He likes it that way, though he's not sure why.

Nagisa asks him how it went and Makoto's honest with him: it went well. Very well.

In fact, he looks forward to doing it again.


	2. Chapter 2

The seven days since he last saw Seijuurou pass by normally, if not a little slowly, for Makoto. Not that things were exceptionally dull. They couldn't be. Between Kou's revamped training regimens taking their toll on his body and his manic studying for an English test (that he passed through divine intervention), he simply didn't have time to think about anyone or anything else in his otherwise simple life.

But when his alarm goes off on Sunday morning, shortly before Ren and Ran were up and ready for their weekly big breakfast, the first thing his cloudy mind's eye sees is red. And just like that, he's instantly up on his feet, ready to face the day.

It doesn't occur to Makoto that he might be a little too overzealous for a simple trip to the store, especially since he doesn't have many things to pick up this time around. Even so, his outfit is carefully selected: today, just for the heck of it, he goes for the red plaid shirt instead of the green one, and the jeans. Afterward, he throws together a quick breakfast for the twins and wolfs down his own plate, waves bye to his family, then makes a beeline for the train station and, eventually, Sport Zero.

The excitement and joy thrumming in his ribcage, Makoto decides, is normal and healthy. And different from anything he's ever experienced. It's not like the warmth in his chest that surges every morning before school when he sees Haru from the bottom of the hill; nor is it the same warmth that spreads over his cheeks when Nagisa nudges his head against his shoulder and hugs him. Or the tingle that races down his back when Kou leans over a tad too much...

It's all of those and something else entirely.

His heart flutters when he sees a bright red Toyota Yaris in the Sport Zero parking lot. It flutters some more once he half-walks, half-runs inside and spots a similar hue of hair peeking out from over a shelf. By the time Makoto maneuvers into the same aisle, he's almost out of breath and his face has since flushed varying shades of pink. "H-Hey," he breathes.

Seijuurou's deciding between two pairs of red goggles when he looks up and grins. "Ahoy there, fellow Captain."

Dork. Makoto smiles, anyway. He can't help himself. "More procurement runs?"

"Yeah." Seijuurou tosses both goggles into his own basket. Already in it are some Speedos, a few black Shark-brand towels, and a white bottle of something. "The team needs to look their best next month."

The next regional tournament isn't for another two months, and a joint-practice session disguised as a scrimmage in three weeks is the only 'meet' their respective schools have lined up. For Iwatobi, it hardly warrants buying new suits. For Samezuka, it's a matter of course. They take everything seriously there, apparently. Only makes sense their captain would, too.

"What about you?" Seijuurou nods toward Makoto's basket. His _empty_ basket.

Embarrassed, Makoto clears his throat. "I'm...getting there."

"So I see."

Makoto slumps and Seijuurou laughs that hearty laugh of his, and slaps him once on the shoulder. "I'm just givin' you a hard time," he says, and his grip on Makoto's shoulder softens and sways a little, large fingers skimming his trapezius. It feels nice—nice enough to melt him into a puddle, that is. Through sheer force of will, he manages to remain rigid and standing.

Heat lurches up Makoto's neck and he silently prays that Seijuurou's dangerously close fingers can't feel it. "Mm."

"Need some help?"

 _I thought you'd never ask_ almost rolls off Makoto's tongue. Thankfully, or perhaps not, he's too distracted by the warm fingers hovering near his collar to say anything and instead just nods.

His hand still on Makoto's shoulder, Seijuurou leads them in the direction of the swimsuits. "Good. C'mon. I wanna show you something. They have these wicked suits here that are super expensive and made from the same materials that everyone wore in London and Beijing..."

Seijuurou's obviously very excited about this and although Makoto has no plans (or even the funds) to buy any suits, he follows. And gladly. It's almost thrilling, how passionate he is about something no one other than Haruka might ever care about. How eager he is to share it with him.

How much of a turn-on it is.

"Nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah..."

The hand on his shoulder jerks him a little, snapping him out of his daze. Makoto blinks as Seijuurou all but thrusts a dark grey jammer into his face. Oh, he's talking about _that_. "No, I mean, _really_. Look at it," Seijuurou gushes. "Pretty amazing stuff, huh?"

From what he can see, it's nothing to write home about. Aside from a few aesthetic differences and probably the material itself, the jammer doesn't look _amazing_ or any different from what Makoto's seen through the years. Not that he'd be the best judge to begin with, considering he's always preferred legskins and bodyskins over anything else.

He wonders what Seijuurou wears. And what he looks like in them.

"Y-Yeah, looks amazing," he utters without a second glance to the swimwear, his face scorching hot.

Seijuurou's hand is still on Makoto, even as he dangles the hanger in front of them and spews out details about the suit, like how it's probably only made out of a certain percentage of Lycra and how only a small number of countries can provide them to their swimmers. It's all information Makoto might otherwise find fascinating or trivial, but all he can think about right now is how close Seijuurou is. And Speedos.

His throat is a little dry and he almost considers faking a coughing spell for some breathing room, but a loud chirp cuts through store's noise.

A cell phone. Seijuurou's.

The redhead's frowning when he presses the Talk button on the screen. "Yeah?"

Not wanting to eavesdrop, or even let on that he might be the slightest bit interested in who he may be talking to, Makoto wanders over to a nearby sales rack and pretends to be actually interested in the jammers and legskins. But even from there, he can clearly hear at least Seijuurou's half of the conversation, and he doesn't sound very happy.

"What do you mean where am I? I told you, I'm out doing stuff for the team."

A decidedly female voice blathers loudly on the other end; so loudly, Seijuurou has to hold the phone away from his ear. Makoto can't make out any of her words. He doesn't need to. Whoever's on the other end can be yelling in Greek for all he knows; she just sounds livid.

Not that it matters to Seijuurou, who simply rolls his eyes and mouths a mocking _blah blah blah_. "Yeah, well, just so we're clear: I didn't promise you anything last night."

Last night. A girlfriend? While not an impossibility, Seijuurou does attend an all-boys boarding school and he seems more than just the tiniest bit interested in Kou. When did he ever find the time to get a girlfriend? The thought of it makes Makoto feel strange inside. And guilty. Very guilty.

"No, I can't go get you _now_..."

Makoto freezes when Seijuurou sneaks a furtive glance at him. "Because I'm busy, that's why," he snidely retorts while sneering at his phone.

There's colorful language and screaming on the other end and Makoto wonders if he should say or do something. Maybe help savage what appears to be a relationship, of some sort, crumbling before his very eyes—something he feels partly responsible for.

"Fine, I'll be there soon. And you better be ready to go," Seijuurou says, exasperated. Without a 'bye' or even a simple, 'see ya,' he hangs up. "Friggin' nag."

"Everything okay?" Makoto tests the waters, tentatively, unsure if he even ought to be prying as it is. After all, he did just cause somewhat of a rift between Seijuurou and...whoever that was on the phone. The last thing he wants is for any of Seijuurou's current irritation directed over to him. Even if he deserves it.

"Yeah," Seijuurou sighs out, deflating, running a hand over the organized chaos that is his hair.

It didn't sound okay, but Makoto says nothing.

"It's just...it's my sister."

Makoto tips a brow. Sister? Huh. Inexplicably, relief washes over him like a wave, and he's not sure why. He just hopes it doesn't show on his face.

It doesn't, thankfully. Seijuurou's too busy slouching against one of the racks, hands jammed into his pockets with an annoyed look on his face. "She's back from work and since she doesn't know her schedule, she's got me playing taxi driver for her. It's all," and he assumes an overly nasal falsetto, "'Sei-chan, take me to the salon. Take me here, take me there. Pick me up, drop me off. Wah wah wah.'"

The theatrics stop, and not a moment too soon. Between the endearing nickname and the mimicry, Makoto's certain any longer and he might burst from withholding his laughter. Guilt threatens him a moment later. He doesn't know her, he doesn't know their situation, and it's not like him to laugh at another's issues.

"Friggin' thorn in the ass." Seijuurou sucks his teeth. "Anyway, I have to go fetch her royal pain-ness. Afraid I'm gonna have to cut this short."

The shift in the mood is sudden, like whiplash, and it makes Makoto grimace. Something heavy and cloudy weighs down painfully in his chest then wafts up into his throat, where it remains stuck in a thick lump. He swallows it down, familiar with the bitter feeling, tempered from years spent around Haruka and his blunt and avoidant nature. Tempered, yet still so very vulnerable.

"I see," he manages to say after a while.

"Yeah. Listen, I'm—I can give you a ride to the station, if you want."

"No need, I can walk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's okay."

It's not okay.

 

\--

 

And for the next few days, things for Makoto flip-flop between being 'not okay' to just 'barely tolerable', even though a botched shopping trip wasn't much cause for concern. It shouldn't bother him, shouldn't have any bearing on his life whatsoever—after all, it's not as if he and Seijuurou are dating or even close friends.

So, like all things in life, he tries bury it deep down and cover it with a smile and a light-hearted disposition. It works. It always has.

Haruka doesn't think anything's wrong with the way Makoto jumps whenever a red car passes them by on their daily walks to and from school; and for once, Makoto's glad his stoic friend's gaze is too busy focused on the ocean. Nagisa's too excited with their club activities and with, well, being Nagisa, and poor Rei's swept up in it to even notice.

Makoto's certain Kou's the only one aware something's off-kilter with him, and he takes extra care and makes every effort to deflect her probing stares and leading questions with smiles and forced confidence. The last thing he wants is for her to catch wind that the boy enamored with her is the reason why his trial times are suffering and why he's been putting as much effort and time into his laps and workouts to hide that fact.

It's strenuous and exhausting, both physically and mentally, and leaves him sore every night and fuzzy-minded every morning, but it works.

By Saturday, though, his limbs and mind are too heavy for him to even _think_.

Makoto's pulling on an old sleeping shirt while the evening breezes in from his open window when the door to his bedroom creeps open. His little sister's peeking through it, her expression sheepish.

It's late, though he doesn't know what time it is, exactly. It feels late and that's enough. "Ran. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

She shakes her head, dark pigtails swaying. " _Oniichan_ , you left your phone downstairs."

He blinks. He barely even remembers using it, let alone leaving it anywhere. Sure enough, she waddles into his room and hands over his smartphone, the charge plug still in.

"You have a new message!" she chirps, proudly.

Makoto skims the screen display. Indeed he does. Two new messages. "Thank you, but you shouldn't peek into other people's phones, Ran." He then ushers her gently out of the room. "Now hurry along back to bed or I won't make the hot cakes for breakfast tomorrow."

That seems to do the trick, and Ran's out of his room and back down the hall into hers, quick as a whip. He envies her energy. Soon as she's gone, he's slumped onto his bed, thumbing through his phone's messages.

The first one is from Nagisa.

_Mako-chan! Club meeting 2morro @ Haru-chan's 7pm! Bring a smile!! Rei-chan's got da snax! dont bee late!!  （*´▽｀*）_

Only Nagisa deems it fit to make even a text message festive with bright orange font and emoticons. Sheesh.

Makoto's reply is a brief and simple, _OK_ , before he moves onto the next message. Thanks to Nagisa's font color choices and without his contacts in, his eyes can barely read _Is this Makoto?_ from an unrecognized number.

Makoto's not a social butterfly and not many people have his number. Outside the club, only his parents, the twins' teachers, and a select few of his classmates have it. He wrinkles his nose. _Yes who is this?_

 _Ahoy there!_  

His heart soars. He can't quite type fast enough. _is thhis seijuro how did u get this number???_

A minute passes and he has to remind himself to breathe as he envisions Seijuurou—or whoever this very confused or very cruel soul playing a prank on him is—doubled over in laughter at him.

_Yah it is. Is this really Makoto?_

Oh. Well. His typing _was_ pretty awful there. Even Nagisa'd be ashamed. _It is._

_Oh whew. Good. I was worried matsuoka gave me the wrong #_

Matsuoka? Was Kou passing his number around without him knowing? It doesn't strike him as something decidedly Kou-like, which further feeds his suspicions.

_You mean Rin?_

_Yah. what a hard ass. took him forever to buckle under and give it to me._

A pause, and another message quickly follows: _do you know he has a pic of shamu in his addr book for you??? XD LOL! Whats that all about??_

Makoto's not sure he wants to know how those particular strings of events tie together, but if Rin was in the room with him now, he'd risk the jagged bites and hug half the life out of him.

_Long story with that. Whats up?_

_Are you free tomorrow?_

Something inside Makoto flips with elation. Sweat's coating his palms. So much, in fact, he feels the smartphone sliding between his trembling fingers as he tries to brain a response that doesn't translate into random gibberish on his phone. Settling on a simple and honest _Until 7pm. Why?_ he waits with bated breath.

_Wanna catch a movie??_

There's a loud thump and it's not until he hears his father's booming voice down the hall telling him to be careful that Makoto realizes it's because _his_ elbow hit the wall behind him when he jumped.

_You there??_

_Oh sorry! Yes Yes I will go._

_Whoo! Pick u up @ Iwatobi station at noon?_

_OK._

And that's it. There's no fanfare. No celebratory music or ticker parades. No return messages saying _just kidding!_ Nothing. Makoto's eyes remain glued to his phone's screen, reading over them just to make sure he hadn't imagined the exchange just now. He reads them four times.

Nope, not imagining things. They're still there.

Sleep isn't instant despite his earlier exhaustion, though when it does come, he's smiling into his pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever. As a result, it's twice as long and thus, twice as dorky.

This isn't a date.

At least, that's what Makoto keeps telling himself between repeated checks of his smartphone's text message log. It's now precisely noon and he's waiting in front of the Iwatobi train station. At the same time, he's trying to convince himself that spending the better part of a day with a person he's inexplicably but undeniably attracted to doesn't necessarily quantify as a date. No matter how much it makes his cheeks hurt from smiling so much about it.

He's thumbing through last night's text messages and hoping the stirring in his chest they cause is enough to ignore the fact that Seijuurou's over ten minutes late. It's not. With a sigh, he jams the phone into his pocket and silently scolds himself for being so antsy. Even Rei shows less anxiety before their meets.

Minutes later, he checks his phone again. Nothing. Panic shakes through his limbs. Is he being stood up?

Impossible. Because this isn't a date.

Is it?

Earlier that morning, his mother entered his room without knocking to replace some linens and caught him splashing some of his father's aftershave on his jaw and throat. She didn't say anything, didn't ask why her son—who doesn't even need to shave his face to begin with—was using that stuff. She merely sniffed and quirked her lips into a smile.

"My, my. Calvin Klein? Must be a hot date."

Red-faced, Makoto denied it, said he was just trying something new, and made every attempt to avoid her knowing looks at the breakfast table.

But now, he still finds himself wondering: if his own sweet mother all but suspects it, does it make it true? Mothers know best, after all.

It's best not to think about it, he decides. Impossible as it is.

He fiddles with the orange straps of his wristwatch, catches a glimpse of its face and realizes it's a quarter after noon now, and Seijuurou's nowhere to be found. A tiny lump forms in his throat and he tries to swallow it down by rationalizing things. It's not a date.

Then again, if it isn't, then why is his heart sinking?

He's never been on a date but he's pretty sure there's a specific protocol for this type of thing. It's certainly rude to be late for any arrangement and while he's not the most punctual person in the world, he'd at least have the common courtesy to text or call or —

"Oi! Tachibana!"

Seijuurou's unmistakable roar comes up from somewhere behind him and it makes Makoto feel lighter than air. When a waving Seijuurou comes into view, all goofy smiles and tanned skin, Makoto waves back and smiles so widely, his cheeks hurt. Again.

Fifteen minutes late or no, all is instantly forgiven.

"You're late," Makoto says, tone playfully scolding.

Seijuurou smirks a little, looks at his own watch, then shrugs, unperturbed. "Oh, am I?"

"You are." Makoto frowns. Pretend-frowns, anyway. "And I'm upset," he adds, because why not?

"Aw, but I spent so long getting ready and trying to look good for you," he drawls. And though Makoto knows he's just being a playful dork, a part of his brain can't help but hope that's true. He notices Seijuurou's voice is deeper and huskier than normal—too rich to be faked, he decides—and how it fills him with the need to take deeper, slower breaths. Looking at Seijuurou doesn't help in that regard: he _does_ look good—very good—wearing something sleeveless and olive green that shows off what years of intense swimming can do to a young man's arms.

Or what they, in turn, can do to the knees of someone ogling them. Maybe Kou's onto something...

The loud honk of a car horn startles Makoto and keeps him from stumbling. A familiar red compact waits for them in front of the station and Makoto beams. Then his face cracks when he realizes if Seijuurou's out here with him, then...?

There's already someone sitting in the front passenger seat. _His_ seat, though he tries to shove such thoughts to the back of his mind. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. And he meekly looks to Seijuurou for it.

"Oh, yeah," Seijuurou says, suddenly remembering. "I forgot to mention: we're going to have some company for a short while."

Company?

The scent of perfume inside the Yaris is strong—stronger than the last time Makoto was in it. The culprit is sitting up front, seat reclined back and her long legs stretched shamelessly out onto the dash. She beams and wriggles her fingers at Makoto in a wave. He smiles, awkwardly, and returns it. He's never met her, has never seen her before, but instantly knows who she is. The golden eyes are a dead giveaway.

She's Seijuurou's sister.

A strange mix of relief and uncertainty floods Makoto as he climbs into the back seat. It's spacious enough inside with Seijuurou in the front seat. With a third person there, it seems a lot more crowded than it really is.

"Thankfully, oneesan's not going to the movies with us," Seijuurou offers. "She's going to the Gorgon caves to get her hair fixed or something."

Unsure what a Gorgon cave is (and even less certain he wants to know), Makoto nevertheless smiles to her. "Hello," he says, politely.

"Not going to introduce us, _Sei-chan_? Where are your manners?" Seijuurou's sister speaks to her brother with a sing-song voice that's undoubtedly grating on purpose. Makoto notices the width of Seijuurou's smirk decreasing with each syllable.

There's some key-jingling and eye-rolling before Seijuurou adjusts his mirrors and meets Makoto's meek gaze in the rear-view. "Makoto Tachibana, this is my older sister, Jun." A pause, and Seijuurou's lips curve and his eyebrows furrow almost evilly. "And when I say older, I mean it. Don't look at her too long, though, or else you'll turn into a pillar of salt."

"Hey!" She swats at his shoulder.

Ignoring her, Seijuurou rolls his eyes as he puts the car into gear and pulls out onto the road from the station. The sudden lurch forward reminds Makoto to fasten his seatbelt and hold on tight.

Jun, meanwhile, doesn't seem too fazed by her brother's comments or method of driving and casually crawls up to her knees so that she's peering over the back of her seat directly at Makoto. "So you're the famous Makoto," she says, face beaming with curiosity.

Famous? Feeling his face burn, he leans back into the suede of his seat, to no avail. "Y-Yes, I'm...Makoto."

"It's so good to finally meet you in person! Sei-chan's been talking about you so much, I just had to—"

The car abruptly veers into the next lane. A work truck honks at them but Seijuurou's too busy glaring at his sister, face boiled a red nearly matching his hair. "HEY!"

"Don't 'hey' me! Keep your eyes on the road and hands on the wheel at all times! Safety first!" Apparently, safety inside of the car isn't so much an issue for Jun, as she comes dangerously close to helping her brother run an SUV off the road when she twists his ear in a way that just screams old hat.

Seijuurou bellows in pain, tries to elbow Jun off, and fights to keep the vehicle from straying out of its lane, all at the same time. "Knock it off, baba! You're gonna get us all killed!"

"I told you to stop calling me that!"

"I'll stop calling you baba when it no longer applies, you frizzy-haired baba!"

"My hair's not frizzy! It's just over-processed right now!"

This family is insane. Makoto's sure of it.

 

\--

 

They pull into a service station to get some gas and snacks at Jun's request. She volunteers Seijuurou to do the honors, sending him into the mini-mart, leaving her and Makoto alone at the pump. They climb out to stretch their limbs as nearly an hour on the road in a compact sedan didn't do them any favors.

"You're tall," Jun quips, after a long while of looking at him through the corner of her eye.

Makoto tilts his head. Blushes, a little, though he has a hunch she's just making small-talk. Or it's going to segue into something else. "Seijuurou's taller. You're tall, too," he counters, feeling awkward and shy and, well, it's true. She probably used to swim.

Unlike Makoto, Jun isn't shy, and she stands straight, miming some kind of pose, one arm extended over her head. "Makes it easy to reach the overhead bins," she says with a proud upward tip of her chin. They share a little laugh at that.

Until Jun's expression turns a little mischievous. Just as Makoto feared. "So."

"So...?" he manages, throat tightening with dread.

"So. Are you two...?" Her hand makes a loose fist then her pinky finger, nail painted a candy-apple red and almost shaped like a heart, stands upright at attention.

"N-No!"

"Oh, but I thought..." She looks weird, and then frowns suspiciously. "Are you _sure_?"

A gas station attendant takes that exact moment to put the nozzle and hose back on the stand, thus mercifully killing that particular course of discussion. Jun thanks him and he's gone, off to the next car. Makoto almost considers calling him back to avoid what's sure to come.

Sure enough, Jun glances back at him. "So," she says, again, her tone hushed and conspiratorial as she eyes her brother towering over everyone inside the mini-mart. "You know what I said earlier, in the car. It wasn't to tease him—" Jun pauses and considers her words when Makoto gives her a slightly cringing look, "—okay, it wasn't _only_ just to tease him. But Sei-chan really did mention you a lot this past week, that's why I thought you two were...well, you know."

Makoto's too stunned to even notice if his ears are as red as they feel hot. Or if he's still blushing all over. "...he did?"

"Yeah. I don't know the details, but I just know he's been beating himself up for the past few days about something he did or didn't do with you. Of course, he didn't mention anything about it to me until I twisted his ears for it." Smug, she combs her hair back from her face with her fingers. Though it's long and an obviously dyed shade of dark brown, she looks very much like her younger brother there. "But he's like that, though. Internalizes everything until you either ease or force it out of him."

"He does?" Realizing his half of the conversation's been little more than two words at a time, Makoto clears his throat. "I mean, I wouldn't have figured him for it, he's always so..."

"Loud and rude and obnoxious?"

"...I wouldn't say that," Makoto grimaces. "Mikoshiba-senpai is open and proud and says whatever he's thinking."

In fact, Makoto sometimes wishes he can be more like him. A proud father-type instead of the passive and too kind mother-hen everyone seems to say (or indirectly say) he is.

"Because it's expected of him," Jun says with a shrug. "But I can assure you, with him, there's a lot more going on than he lets on. Just keep that in mind. If he says it's nothing, that's your cue to be direct."

Before Makoto can question her any further about it, Seijuurou returns from the mini-mart and hands Jun her requests: two ungodly sized cans of Red Bull. "Were you guys talking about me?"

"You should be so lucky," Jun says, smooth as butter. She sneaks a wink toward Makoto. "Makoto-kun should change places with me and sit up front, don't you think?"

Makoto's not sure but when he passes her and she passes him, and they exchange a knowing look, he feels like they exchanged something else besides seats, too.

 

\--

 

"All right, have fun you two," Jun chirps as she climbs out of the vehicle onto the curb. "See you in a few hours. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"So, basically, anything just short of cannibalism," Seijuurou mutters with a sneer.

Jun presses her middle finger against the driver's side window and drags it along the glass in a wild, zigzag pattern. "That's for you."

"Whatever." Seijuurou waves her off as Makoto just chortles behind his hand. "Call me when you're ready to fly back home so I can bring you back your broom."

Jun looks at Makoto in the passenger seat, pointedly ignoring her brother. "It was nice meeting you, Makoto-kun. Take care of Sei-chan." She winks. "And remember what I told you!"

She's gone before the heat rushes up Makoto's neck—it's barely dusting over his cheeks when Seijuurou regards him with a highly-arched brow of suspicion. It almost looks menacing. "What did she tell you?"

Makoto wishes the floorboards beneath him can just finally open up and swallow him whole. "N-Nothing," he mumbles.

"Nothing?"

"That's right. Nothing."

It's not 'nothing', but Seijuurou doesn't need to know that. At least, not yet. Thankfully, the redhead doesn't pry. He simply puts the car into drive and zips out onto the road toward the movie theater.

The theater is another fifteen minutes away from Jun's salon. It isn't in a mall, nor is it tucked away in some dark alley. It's a four-screen cineplex, modestly sandwiched between a closed dance studio and a music supply store—the perfect scene for the arts and for hipsters. Judging by the red velvet carpets and upholstery, and the gold trimmings here and there, it was probably an old stage theater, revamped and refurbished to look like a Western-style classic movie theater.

It's also classic in taste. None of the films listed on the sign in blocky black katakana seem familiar. At least, not to Makoto, who looks at them like he does each week's vocabulary list in English class.

_The Blob. Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. Psycho. It Came from Outer Space._

Seijuurou doesn't notice his discomfort. "What about Psycho?" he offers.

Makoto squirms. The title doesn't sound very promising but the enthusiasm and grin Seijuurou has doesn't indicate it's a bad movie, either. Probably not Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman bad, but still. Psycho? "I never heard of it."

"Really? Holy shit, man. We have to rectify that. Like _right now_."

With no other warning, Seijuurou hooks his arm around Makoto's and tugs him along to the box office where a young woman waiting behind the counter perks up with interest at the two tall young men approaching it. She smiles, widely, letting her eyes roam over the junction of their looped arms.

"Two tickets to Psycho, please!" Seijuurou requests, giddy and unaware the young lady's looking at him—at them—with a wicked glint in her eye. Like they're dinner. Makoto does, so he moves his arm away as politely as possible and lets it hang limp at his side; it still lingers close to Seijuurou's to feel the heat radiating off it. For now, that's enough.

Miss Knowing Smile fiddles with some buttons on her register, her namesake never fading. It widens when she makes eye contact with Makoto and asks, "You boys out on a date?"

To his surprise, Seijuurou just shrugs and pays for the tickets. "Sure."

The only person more stunned than Miss Knowing Smile is Makoto himself.

How about that. They are on a date.

And he couldn't be happier.

 

\--

 

Although Makoto knows next to nothing about him or his body of work—with this Psycho being the first of his films he's ever seen—Alfred Hitchcock is a master of suspense and intrigue. An amazing thing, considering these types of movies aren't his cup of tea.

Since they were youngsters, Nagisa was (and still is) the horror movie buff of the club, often bringing his collection to their sleepovers. His favorites are the violent, spooky ones—the ones with the Jasons, the Freddy Kruegers, the Leatherfaces. Makoto's been terrified of them and all others like them ever since. Something about watching teenagers being stalked and tortured by a disfigured lunatic never struck him as a pleasant experience, and he wondered, once or twice, how anyone besides a sociopath can derive any sort of pleasure from it. He's also wondered if those movies are to blame for why Nagisa is as every bit as demented as he is now.

Yet, Psycho is different, and it's not because it's in plain black and white. Makoto finds himself actually drawn into the movie's plot, even emotionally invested in Marion Crane and her dilemma with the stolen money and hoping she'd do the right thing before the law catches up to her!

Beside him sits Seijuurou. Recently finished with _three_ smuggled boxes of Junior Mints, he sips from a mega-sized cup until the ice inside stirs. Occasionally, he offers commentary and bits of trivia, like how Marion's purse and underclothes go from white to black after she steals the money, and how it's the first movie to ever show a toilet flushing. Intrigued, Makoto listens and murmurs questions between handfuls of popcorn with extra butter. All to the chagrin of a portly and hairy man several rows down who twice had to turn in his seat and give them disparaging looks and shushes. Both times, Seijuurou dismissed him with a glare and one-fingered salute.

Now, on screen, Marion and the jittery owner of the motel, Norman Bates, chat away. _A boy's best friend is his mother._

What a strange man.

Makoto silently offers popcorn; Seijuurou gratefully takes two large handfuls then offers up his drink in exchange. Makoto sips from the same straw, the same one that was just between the other boy's lips. It's strangely erotic, almost like indirectly kissing him. The notion makes his imagination wander: Seijuurou swirling his long tongue around the straw, nibbling his teeth down on it, sealing his lips over it and suckling without a care in the world. Guided by those thoughts, Makoto does the same, lets his tongue search for the drink's flavor on the surface of the straw before he even breathes through it. He groans lowly when he does.

Fruit punch.

Seijuurou coughs suddenly and crosses then uncrosses his long legs.

Makoto starts and hopes, and hopes hard, that he wasn't just spotted practically frenching a straw. "Are you...okay?"

"I'm fine," Seijuurou says. Without warning, he leans in over the cup in Makoto's hand, taking a gulp so hearty, anyone can see the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he settles back.

Makoto relinquishes the cup and shifts around in his own seat, suddenly finding it a little tight and uncomfortable to just simply sit and not think about tongues and throats. "You sure?"

Seijuurou nods and gestures to the screen as Norman Bates is upbraided by some unseen elderly woman. _I won't have you bringing some young girl in for supper!_

Then Marion is taking a shower. Makoto grows a bit uncomfortable. He feels like a voyeur—like he shouldn't be watching this. He squirms just as Seijuurou leans in on his side and whispers, "Here comes the best part," his breath, cold from his drink, wafting against his neck.

It makes Makoto shudder, and he can't tell if it's good or bad.

The shower curtain draws back suddenly and there's a shadow...and a screech. Except it's not a human screech at all, but a violin's. And there's a butcher knife—sharp, even in black and white, it glints just before it descends. Then Marion's screaming bloody murder, literally, and Makoto's screaming along with her. His body reacts all on his own and before he can even think it's invasive or presumptuous, he's burying his face into the crook of Seijuurou's neck and trying to hide behind him somehow.

"Oi! Tachibana—hey, take it easy! Look, the scene's over." Awkwardly, Seijuurou tries to pry Makoto away from him, to no avail. Makoto's latched on, refusing to leave this sanctuary. He doesn't dare open his eyes—the image of poor, defenseless Marion being butchered in the shower is still fresh behind his eyelids.

"N-No."

"You okay?"

A tiny squeak is all Makoto can respond with. Though he can't see, he can hear the movie, can tell the scene is over from the lack of violins and shrieks. Norman is wailing, _Mother, oh god! Mother! Blood, blood!_ But the damage is done. Seijuurou probably hates him more than anything right now.

"...Makoto?"

"I'm sorry, senpai," he's trembling so hard, he can't even speak. He pulls back, his head lowered. From this position, he notices that in his fright, he knocked over his bucket of popcorn and Seijuurou's soda. Shit. "I can't..."

To make matters worse, the movie snob several rows down turns and scolds them, threatening to go get the manager if they don't pipe down. Seijuurou tells him to go fuck himself then turns to Makoto. "You wanna leave?"

Mortified, Makoto can only nod.

 

\--

 

Makoto's heart doesn't stop pounding until they're far away from the theater. Much to his delayed surprise, Seijuurou is actually driving carefully.

The world around them is unfamiliar and the late afternoon sky is darkening; Makoto can't tell much else about where they are or where they're headed, only that he's unable to smell the sea. They're not in Iwatobi, that's all he knows.

The car pulls onto the side of the road somewhere away from the lights and sounds of businesses and homes and traffic. There's a loud cranking noise when Seijuurou pulls on the parking brake then nothing else, except, "Tachibana?"

"I'm—I'm sorry," Makoto sighs.

"Don't be. Listen," Seijuurou turns halfway in his seat and sets a heavy but strangely comforting hand down on Makoto's shoulder. "I'm not sure what you feel sorry for, but I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?"

Nodding, Makoto does as told, taking a none-too-shallow gulp of air and exhaling moments later. It's strangely relaxing, so he does it again and again, until his nerves settle. Until he's brave enough to look up at Seijuurou's face without wanting to bolt out the door and out of his life.

"Sorry," Seijuurou murmurs first, guiltily. "I shouldn't have suggested that one. Shoulda gone with the outer space movie instead."

"No, it would've had the same result, I'm sure. I'm just a wuss like that," Makoto says with a little self-deprecating laugh. "I'm a scaredy cat. Ask anyone I know. Horror movies and I don't mix."

Outside the car, cicadas chirp—a stark contrast to the deafening silence inside. Makoto feels ridiculous now. His first date and he's ruined everything.

"Clowns," Seijuurou says out of the blue.

"Huh?"

"I'm scared of clowns," Seijuurou murmurs, squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles look whiter than powder. "Seriously. At least you're scared of something that's _supposed_ to be scary. Me? If Ronald McDonald showed up here, I'd shit a brick."

Makoto chuckles and snorts against his better judgment. "You're kidding." The thought of a strong and confident young man like Seijuurou being afraid of a clown is too surreal, yet the serious look in his eyes when he shakes his head says otherwise—no, he's absolutely _not_ kidding.

Why did he tell him this? To make him feel better?

Something in Makoto's chest flutters. He recalls Jun's earlier words but finds himself unable to do anything but stare longingly at the redhead.

"If I knew, I wouldn't have brought you out here like this." Seijuurou scrubs a hand through his hair and against his nape, something Makoto notices he does when he's anxious or when things aren't going as planned. "I'm sorry, I keep screwing up..."

Makoto panics. "No! Don't be! I'm glad I got the chance to do this with you." He's just babbling now. "I had fun. Er, I'm having fun. I mean, I _always_ have fun...with you."

There's a look on Seijuurou's face that borders on amusement and disbelief. It's priceless. His left eyebrow arches high to match the same lifted side of his smirking mouth. So boyish and cute, Makoto can't look at it for too long without hearing his own heart pound in his ears. "Even when I take you to see movies with cross-dressing killers?"

"Yes, even when—wait," there's undoubtedly a strong crease in the space between Makoto's eyebrows as he thinks back to the movie, "cross-dressing killers? So that _wasn't_ Norman's mother?"

Seijuurou blurts out a single laugh then winces sheepishly. "Oops?"

"Oh, I can't believe you!"

"Well, I can't believe _you've_ never even heard of Psycho! Seriously, you need to live a little more, man." Playfully, Seijuurou smacks him hard on the shoulder and Makoto can't hide his grimace in time. "Oh, was I too—?"

"N-No." Makoto rubs his shoulder. "It's been like this all week. Think I might've overdone it..."

Seijuurou decreases the weight of his palm, mindfully, alleviating the pain there. But it's only a temporary relief—the tight ache still burns. "What's wrong with it? Swimmer's shoulder?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I'll get it checked out next week. It's no big deal."

"Yeah, no big deal until you're benched for a torn rotator cuff. Come on." Seijuurou unbuckles his seatbelt and exits the car, only to reenter it via one of the rear doors. "And take your shirt off."

Makoto can only sit and stare, limbs frozen in place. Seijuurou may as well have asked him to murder his family. "S-Senpai?"

"Don't look at me like that. I'm just going to give you a little massage, that's all."

That's all, he says. As if.

It's not that Makoto isn't curious about it, because he most definitely is. And his shoulder _does_ hurt like hell and who wouldn't want to have those hands on their body?

But what if a police officer catches them? What then? _Why no, Officer. We're not performing any lewd acts or doing anything unseemly at all! I always take my shirt off and sit in the backseat of a car on the side of the road in the early evenings with other men. It's actually a hobby of mine!_

Curiosity wins out over discretion when Makoto climbs gracelessly over his seat into the back. It's a minor comfort knowing Seijuurou's expression remains neutral, never shifting at all as Makoto unbuttons his own shirt with trembling fingers.

As a swimmer, he's disrobed and dressed in front of others. Countless times, even. Yet there he is, red as a lobster and shaking like a leaf, worrying if his physique measures up to Seijuurou's expectations.

"Don't worry, I do this all the time with the rookies on my team. Helps ease things until you can see a doctor or something."

"Really, there's no need," Makoto croaks, one last attempt to break free before he turns his back on the other. The air inside the car has suddenly turned muggy, almost stifling, even if the windows are cracked open and the breeze outside is strong.

"You backstrokers, always so stubborn." Seijuurou slides up behind him.

"How did you know I—"

How Seijuurou knows his preferred method of swimming will forever remain a mystery once his hands, large and unbelievably warm, fall on the bared skin of Makoto's back. They move back and forth, tracing the defined lines there, surprisingly soft and delicate despite their size, barely skimming the skin in search of something. What exactly, Makoto's not sure.

Then one of Seijuurou's hands stops moving. The pad of his thumb hones in on just a tiny spot under the tender ridge of bone at Makoto's right shoulder blade...

He doesn't press into it so much as he _absolutely nails it_.

It's so abrupt yet so good, so _perfect_ , and everything Makoto needs.

"Ah!"

Seijuurou chuckles silkily as Makoto settles back into the seat he almost leapt out of. "Did I get it?"

Oh did he ever. "How did you...?"

"Trade secret." He pushes his thumb into the spot again and Makoto rewards him with a loud groan and shudder of delight. "Still want me to stop?"

"Never."

Makoto read somewhere that it's common for people to doze off during massages. Now, sitting there with strong fingers stimulating the spots they just palliated and discovering tickly spots he never knew existed, Makoto has to wonder _how_.

One minute, every muscle and nerve fiber in his body feels coiled tight like a spring that's ready to snap. After amazing and deft fingers have worked their way deep into his skin and muscle, everything relaxes...only to tighten again at the feel of fruit punch-scented breath tickling his neck.

"You smell good," Seijuurou murmurs, voice deep and rumbly and lips nearly grazing his ear lobe. "Is that Calvin Klein?"

"Y-Yeah," Makoto whimpers. He can't recognize the sound of his own voice: thick and breathless with arousal. The tension and pain is melting from him so fast, it's dizzying. Out the corner of his eye, he captures the sight of fog on the car's rear window. That might explain the single bead of sweat sliding down the hollow of his spinal column.

Or maybe it's because of the spidery crawl of Seijuurou fingers up and down his sides.

Either way, it doesn't keep Makoto's body from twitching violently when those glorious hands come together at the tiny space just beneath the nape of his neck. Fingers and palm-heels work in unison, rubbing small and slow circles deep into the tissue there, the mere motion urging him to roll back into the body behind his.

Makoto hisses, vaguely aware that his own hands are clutching not Seijuurou's knees, but his thighs. As expected, they're well-toned and defined and they twitch beneath his kneading, sweaty palms. He can't bring himself to even feel apologetic about it. "Mikoshiba-senpai..."

"Just call me Seijuurou." The vibration of Seijuurou’s humming bass on his neck steals the breath straight from Makoto's lungs, leaving him a panting and whimpering mess.

Then Seijuurou does something with the flat heels of his palms—he pushes them hard into the small of Makoto's back, forcing it to arch. And that's when Makoto realizes he's hard, painfully so, cock swollen with need and straining against the thin, cotton fabric of his boxers. An obvious bulge forms in his pants and he hopes Seijuurou doesn't notice it.

Looking to maintain more self-control now that what little of it he has left is slipping away by the minute, Makoto straightens his spine and slides back, bumping his rear against something hard and thick. Yet still warm and wrapped in fabric. Not Seijuurou's hip. A little lower...

"Oh!"

When Makoto gasps, so does Seijuurou. But for a different reason.

He's embarrassed.

"Oh shit. Shit! Sorry!" Seijuurou awkwardly shifts around, attempting to wiggle away from Makoto and bumps his head against the door behind him. "Fuck!"

Turning to face him, Makoto clenches the hand on his thigh. "Senpai..."

"Hang on, Tachibana, if I could just get my leg free—"

" _Seijuurou_." Somehow, direct use of his name puts an end to all escape plans. Feeling the other boy tense up, Makoto casts a deliberate glance downward, between his legs. Then another, between Seijuurou's.

 "It's _okay_ ," he whispers, then he slides his hand up his thigh, even though he's not even sure what's possessing him to even do such a thing. About the only thing he's sure of is that this is the craziest thing he's ever tried.

That and Seijuurou's not even trying to stop him.

His fingers barely reach the delta of wrinkled and stretched fabric when Seijuurou's phone, tucked into a pocket not even two inches up from Makoto's wandering hand, glows and vibrates from an incoming call.

They can't scoot away from each other any quicker even if they try.

Head ducked and gold eyes averted, Seijuurou adjusts himself as he moves back into the driver's seat. Voice dry, he offers his caller a quick, "I'm on my way," and nothing else before hanging up.

In the backseat, Makoto puts his shirt back on and, after some serious thought, decides it's best to just remain back there. He knows it's not his fault they were interrupted, but he still can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't have done something worth interrupting in the first place. Like he's pushed them both over some boundary they can't ever return from.

The awkward silence lingers until Jun rejoins them later, though the looming tension remains.

"Did you have fun?" She asks them.

"Yes," Makoto and Seijuurou reply in unison so swift, it's not accidental. Luckily, Jun doesn't comment on it. She doesn't need to—the way her freshly waxed brows raise together says it all.

They say nothing else for the rest of the trip back to Iwatobi.

 

\--

 

Later that evening, long after the club meeting at Haru's, Makoto's tucked in his bed, replaying the day's events and trying to make sense of everything when his phone lights up.

A text message from Seijuurou. He's almost afraid to read it.

_Hope ur shoulder's better._

Relieved, Makoto grins and responds with a hasty: _it is. thank you. :)_ And sets the phone on his nightstand, satisfied things ended on that sort of note instead of something sour.

Not ten minutes later, his phone lights up again with another message and unlike the previous one, Makoto regrets even reading it.

_Jun has the worst timing in the universe, just sayin._

"No, Seijuurou," Makoto whispers to himself as he peeks to make sure his bedroom door is locked. Once he's sure it is, one hand disappears beneath his blanket. " _You_ do."

It's tricky at first, but after a few tries, he discovers texting with one hand is rather easy.


	4. Chapter 4

_i've never done this before..._

_Don't worry just go with the flow_

_all right..._

_Is it hard??_

_kind of..._

_If it helps, mine is :/_

"Mako-chan keeps checking his phone."

Nagisa's voice is like a splash of cold water to Makoto's body, snapping the tall boy out of a hypnotic daze so deep, he'd forgotten he was on the Iwatobi High School rooftop and having lunch with his friends.

"Oh," Makoto chuckles nervously, "I'm sorry, I was just—"

"Yoink!"

Nagisa playfully snatches up the phone while Rei tells him, in vain, it's not polite to snoop into cell phones that don't belong to him. Of course, the blonde doesn't listen and nimbly avoids poor Makoto who’s all but chasing after him, pleading for the phone's return as Kou and Haruka look on with semi-interest.

Just business as usual with the Iwatobi Swim Club.

Things are now at that tolerable level of embarrassment where the only fallout is a few jumpy laughs between friends and reddened cheeks. Makoto realizes they can easily veer toward the unbearable though, depending on whether Nagisa will take pity on him and _not_ skim through his text messages...

_senpai!! this is embarrassing!_

_No, embarasing would be if I called u..._

…because that was when Seijuurou called him the night before, when things were a different sort of embarrassing—more exciting than anything else for the near hour that followed. Makoto can't quite explain it and he hopes he won't have to. Because a reason for why there's a nearly hour long conversation with the Samezuka captain in his call log simply doesn't exist.

Mercifully, Nagisa gives up trying when he can't figure out the lock code on the screen. Thank goodness for modern technology.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Kou reaches into her pocket and withdraws her own phone to thumb through a few screens. "I forgot to mention we're having our joint practice with Samezuka after school today instead of next week!"

"Really?" Makoto’s neck cracks with how fast it turns. Something’s sparked within him and before he knows what he's even doing, he's smiling, eagerly wide and hopefully bright, and even Haruka's giving him strange looks for it.

Kou doesn’t say anything of it. She shrugs. "I texted Mikoshiba-buchou last night and he immediately offered to reschedule it since they have free time."

The dumb grin hasn't left Makoto’s face, and he's certain it won't leave until later that afternoon.

\--

It's become somewhat of a tradition for the swim club to stop at Lawson's on their way to the train station. With the after school crowds, it's not as easy to get in and get out as it often is, and Makoto's stuck waiting with Haruka outside while the first-years are inside stocking up on snacks and chit-chatting with their classmates. To pass the time, he shares a twin popsicle with Haruka and waits in companionable silence. Another tradition of theirs.

"I'm actually pretty excited about this joint session," Makoto says with a thoughtful sigh. "Do you think Rin will be there?"

Haruka doesn't respond—not verbally, anyway. He doesn't need to. The subtle lift of one black eyebrow speaks volumes.

"Mm, you're right," Makoto laughs. "Of course he will be, won't he? Especially now that—oh." Some half-melted slush of the ice pop on Haru's cheek draws Makoto's attention. "Oh, you have some on your face."

He gestures to the same spot on his own face just to the right of his mouth. Only there's a slight mix-up in the communication and Haruka swipes at the wrong side.

"No, no. The other side."

Again, Haruka misses the mark entirely and Makoto can't help but laugh fondly, reminded of Ren and Ran whenever they eat something messy. Sometimes it feels like he's a big brother to triplets instead of twins. "No, you silly. Here," he pauses, reaches into his pocket for a tissue and finds none. No big deal. Brushing his thumb across his friend's chin and lips works just as fine as any hanky.

"Makoto-kun?"

The soft laughter stops cold. Makoto's smile first freezes then drops like a water balloon. His stomach, just as fragile, follows suite.

There stands Jun Mikoshiba beside her sparkly red Toyota Yaris.

With Seijuurou in the front seat looking dead at him.

Their gazes lock and it's physically painful to wrench his own away. The cold, numb feeling doesn't fade from the pit of Makoto's belly, yet everywhere else on his body feels hot and tingly, a mix of dread and anticipation. "Jun-san," his voice is scratchy, like he's screamed himself hoarse.

Jun gracefully avoids mentioning anything about his voice cracking or how his hand, with melted ice cream still dripping from it, lingers unmoving on Haru's cheek. Instead, she waves him off, casually as only she can. "Fancy seeing you here." She pokes her head into the car. "Sei-chan, it's your friend. Say hello!"

Their gazes lock again. And there's something there, swirling in Seijuurou's deep-set gold irises, that takes the air meant for Makoto's 'hello' and shoves it back down his throat. Seijuurou's the one who breaks their stare this time. Ignoring Makoto's wave, he mutters something to his sister then turns away to look out the driver-side window.

"Guess he's not in the mood today. See you around, Makoto-kun!" With a small wave and contrite smile, Jun climbs into the car and it leaves so fast, Makoto wonders if it was even really there to begin with. The look on Seijuurou's face ingrained into his memory ensures that. Makoto tries to ignore it, tries to shove it to the back of his mind.

Yet it's all he sees later, long after the team boards the train to Samezuka.

\--

Later, and much to the surprise of everyone on both teams, Seijuurou is absent from practice. It's a sudden thing, according to Samezuka's vice-captain, but ultimately not unheard of in the world of high school athletics. Yet highly unusual—no one can remember the last time Seijuurou’s ever missed practice. The vice-captain shrugs and picks up a whistle and clipboard and resumes his duties.

Against his better judgment, Makoto texts Seijuurou: _hi, missed you @ practice, hope everything's ok._ Once he clicks send, dread creeps like fingers over Makoto’s skin, leaving behind goosebumps. He thinks back on that look he gave him at Lawson's.

Couldn't be...

 _No_ , he tells himself. _Seijuurou's fine and there's absolutely nothing wrong with him_. Makoto believes it just enough.

Determined to focus on what he's convinced he came to Samezuka for, Makoto fixes his goggles snugly over his eyes and arches his back off the block and into the pool.

Couldn't get a single thing done right.

\--

The practice is tough and lasts a lot longer than anyone on Iwatobi's team imagined it would. Though their muscles are sore and their eyes sting from chlorine, they're all famished enough to head to the nearest MOS Burger for dinner. Not exactly the best or healthiest dinner for tired athletes but the seasonal miso mackerel burgers advertised on the menu outside assures that nothing, not even Makoto's own warnings, could ever hope to stop Haruka from wandering in.

It's rather crowded inside—most of the other diners being stragglers from nearby Samezuka—but they manage to find an empty, circular booth. Falling into its cushiony leather seats, the Iwatobi Swim Club slumps and sighs in unison.

"Man, that practice today was killer. I can barely feel my bones," Nagisa groans, his head drooping and leaning toward Rei's shoulder with poorly-hidden familiarity.

Rei looks flustered for a moment then he collects himself and gently pushes Nagisa's noggin away from him. "It _was_ rather different from Samezuka's standard training regiment," he utters, "perhaps it's the vice-captain's syllabus."

"Perhaps it's because that vice-captain is a tyrant!" Nagisa whines and pumps a fist. "Down with tyranny!"

"Down with tyranny!" Kou echoes with a grumble, weakly pumping her own fist.

Nagisa snorts at her. "What are you joining the revolution for, Gou-chan? You didn't have to swim."

"No," Kou says with a shrug, "but I still had to deal with him. He's not very easy to talk to and didn't seem too happy to talk to me until he learned who my brother was. I actually found myself missing Mikoshiba-buchou and his dorkiness."

 _You and I both_ , Makoto nearly says.

Nagisa sighs, leaning toward Rei—and being pushed back away—again. "I wonder why he wasn't there. Isn't he supposed to be a big and strong captain?"

The need to say something—anything—makes Makoto squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Instinctively, he palms the outline of his smart phone in his pocket and brushes his thumb hesitantly over where the screen ought to be...only stopping because of the unexpected shift in movement beside him.

It's Haruka, and he's shrugging. "You can ask him yourself," he murmurs before taking a bite of his burger.

As if on cue, a bell jingles and the restaurant's main doors open. The employees behind the counter sing out a "Welcome!" in unison at their new entrant: Seijuurou Mikoshiba himself.

Makoto's heart leaps and somersaults into his throat, his pulse going wild.

"Ooh, there he is," Nagisa murmurs conspiratorially. "We should invite him over."

Kou fidgets. "I...don't think that's a good idea, Nagisa-kun," she whispers back.

Too late. Before Kou can object and before Makoto can tell him to climb down from the furniture (but never outright telling him to stop), Nagisa's waving like a madman toward the redhead. "Miko-chan! Miko-chan! Yoo-hoo! Over here!"

His face burns and hurts, yet Makoto’s brain can't tell if he's smiling like an idiot or not; it's too preoccupied with keeping him from hyperventilating and jumping out of his seat with joy. Things only seem to worsen (or get better) when, after making his order, Seijuurou spots and joins them.

"Squeeze a cheek, will you?"

Displeased at either the verbiage or Mikoshiba himself, Rei scoots over, allowing the redheaded newcomer ample room at their table. Seijuurou gladly takes up the offered space, plopping down at the end of the row beside Rei and across from Kou, Makoto, and Haruka. Without delay, Seijuurou's golden gaze settles on Kou and the Matsuoka looks away like she'd rather be elsewhere.

"We missed you at practice today, Miko-chan!" Nagisa says between mouthfuls of fries. Poor Rei beside him is stuck dodging flyaway pieces. "Your vice-captain is a dictator!"

"Nagisa," Makoto scolds. He doesn't sound scolding enough. Nagisa and Seijuurou continue on as if they haven't heard or seen him.

"You mean Nakagawa?"

"Yes, him!" Nagisa pouts. "He worked us like crazy and he was mean to Gou-chan!"

A dark and stormy look brews its way across Seijuurou's face and Makoto finds himself oddly entranced by it. It's a new expression for the redhead. The scowls and the annoyed expressions Seijuurou's displayed in the past notwithstanding, Makoto has never seen him look so angry.

Such thoughts are chased from his mind when Seijuurou drops the frown and reaches forth across the table for Kou's hand. She recoils, embarrassed, but that doesn't deter Seijuurou—he just quickly shifts gears, smiles like the proud dork that he is, and lifts his thumb from his rejected hand in one smooth movement.

"Worry not," he declares, proudly, "I'll sort him out. This I vow on Gou-kun's honor."

Kou grumbles and quietly asks him to not refer to her as such to which Seijuurou just smiles and chuckles at her—a soft, husky sound that Makoto usually melts upon hearing. Except he can't focus on it, only on the tiny voice in the back of his head; the one wondering if the redhead would react in this way if Nakagawa was as rude to him as he was towards Kou. Probably not.

There's a tight clench in his stomach and just as soon as Makoto realizes what it truly is, he wishes he hadn’t.

Envy is a rotten, terrible thing.

It's then that Makoto decides staring at the napkin dispenser in the middle of the table is much easier to handle. Much easier than letting his mind focus on the suspicion his envy's breeding.

"So what happened, anyway?" Nagisa asks. Seemingly out of the blue. "Why did you miss practice? Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," Seijuurou leans back in his seat, spreading out his sculpted arms over the back of the booth, "just caught some kind of bug last night so I was cooped up at home all day. One of those twenty-four hour things. But like I'm said, I'm fine."

That's a lie and he knows it. That Seijuurou's pointedly avoiding even looking in Makoto’s general direction as he says and does all of this doesn’t help.

It'll be too easy to call him out on it but Makoto's not that type of person. Besides, it'll call into question how he knows it into the forefront of the group's chat. The last thing he wants is for his friends to find out he and the redhead sitting across from him had awkward phone sex last night.

He wonders if he should blame all of this awkwardness on their previous night's activities. Judging by the way they laughed breathlessly when they were done and how Seijuurou thanked him in a husky murmur, Makoto _thought_ Seijuurou enjoyed it...

Then again, he never did ask for an encore, either. Did it mean anything if he did or not? Did it even having anything to do with this?

Makoto sighs and straws his cherry tea. He's not sure about anything anymore.

He mulls over this as things at their table fall into a relatively quiet bubble of minor activity. As quiet as things can get with Nagisa at the helm, anyway. Not even three minutes silence pass when the restaurant’s radio plays a familiar song and the blonde darts up, full of spare energy from three milkshakes. "Hey, it's Girls Generation! I love them!"

Kou's the only one sharing even a third of his enthusiasm. "Me too! They were on my favorite variety show last night. They performed this and Paparazzi!"

"This _is_ Paparazzi," Nagisa argues.

"No, it's Mister Taxi," Kou counters with a scoff.

"It's Paparazzi."

"Mister Taxi!"

Nagisa whines and tugs on Rei's sleeve, seeking his support. The blue-haired boy adjusts his glasses and _insists_ he has no idea about anything related to the pop group because while they're beautiful and very talented, their particular style of music clashes with his preference for Enka and classical instrumentals. Haru just shrugs them off.

Seijuurou, on the other hand, claims he has no idea what the song is or who's the group singing it. "They're that group from Akihabara, right?"

Makoto darts him a _look_. Another lie.

None of this is making sense. Wasn't everything fine between them?

"It's actually Genie," Makoto says abruptly and he tries not to sound too loud or snappy about it. _It's track two of their Japanese album, actually—the same one_ you _have in your sister's car, Seijuurou,_ he wants to add, but it's pointless now.

The argument effectively ends and out the corner of his eye, he sees Seijuurou's face fault into a frown, sharp jaw set harder than a stone.

Smiling weakly toward his teammates, Makoto ignores the churn in his stomach and adds: "I'm sorry; I'm not—I'm not feeling very well..."

He also feels very dumb and stupid and foolish, all at once. With another apology, he gets up and leaves the restaurant, unable to look any of his friend's, or Seijuurou, in the eye.

\--

Makoto's not two blocks away from the restaurant when he hears faint footsteps approaching him from behind. He can smell the mackerel already. "Haru, you didn't have to leave too."

"I know," the dark-haired boy says, plainly. "I didn't want to stay, either."

Of course he didn't. Haru's taciturn and unexpressiveas ever, but he's rigid and uncompromising once he's made a decision. Makoto appreciates his rigidity more than anything right now. After a day full of uncertainties, it's the only certainty he has.

They journey to the train station and back to Iwatobi together. The trip is quiet, save for the incessant ringing of Makoto's phone. Ignoring it does little to deter the caller, and it's so obnoxiously loud and glaring, and _of course_ he's set that damn Genie song as the particular ringtone, so he knows who it is.

Of all the times, Seijuurou…

By the fourth call, even Haru's glancing his way with an expectant look. "...are you planning on ever answering that?"

With an uneasy smile, Makoto sets the damn thing to silent mode. "It's...not important," he says quickly. It's not true and he realizes it sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anything else.

And, naturally, Haru catches onto that. For all his stoicism, he's very observant and keen, perhaps just as much as Makoto is about him. "But it was important during lunch today?"

Makoto offers no reply. He just sighs—it's as much an answer as anything else.

They get to the stone steps just below the temple torii near Haruka's house where they always meet up and split up, when Makoto asks, "Haru, do you think I get overinvested? Or that I look too far into things?"

"No," Haruka says without his usual thoughtful silence. "I think you're dedicated. You realize what's important to you and to others before anyone else does and you focus on that."

"...thank you, Haru."

"Mm."

Haru pauses in midstep. "It's not my business," he says, turning to face him, lips compressed in sympathy. A subtle change to some, a radical change to Makoto. "But I think you should call him."

Makoto considers his friend's words later while in bed and stealing more than just a few hopeful glances toward his phone. Tired of waiting for, he scoops it up and stares at the green casing and the lit screen, hoping it'd give him some kind of sign.

He bites his lip. He's not sure of what to say to him. He just knows what he wants, and what he wants is to hear his voice again, as it's meant to be heard. He wants to hear that barky laugh of his; wants to hear his prefectural drawl seep into his speech when he's too busy talking about his passions to even notice; wants to hear every rumble of his bass and how it softens when he's being playful and deepens when he's serious.

He just wants him.

Down the hall, Ran's loudly bossing Ren around. It reminds him of Jun and her domineering but helpful attitude toward her younger brother. Makoto almost wishes he had her number. She'll know what to do or say.

Maybe. She'll probably just tell him to call.

Throwing all the caution into the wind, he dials Seijuurou's number and waits with bated breath.

No answer.

His heart would've shattered if he didn't already expect it. After how many ignored calls, how could he not?

He doesn't leave a voicemail nor does he bother with another text message. All attempts to communicate electronically have resulted in epic failure, anyway.

He realizes he'll just have to contact him the old way.

In person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a fan of this chapter myself—it was like pulling teeth. Next one's the last!
> 
> Oh, and for those of you that are curious, the song 'Genie' is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0kD138mk2g  
> (And the lyrics are here: https://smtownjjang.wordpress.com/2010/08/28/snsd-genie-japanese-version-lyrics-englishromanization/)


	5. Chapter 5

The Samezuka desk clerk fixes his glasses and looks through some papers held together on a clipboard, unaware of the immense power he holds. Makoto waits and watches, desperation lingering in his body, as the man flips over sheet after sheet of scribbled and stamped names.

"Mikoshiba-kun?" The clerk hums and folds over one sheet. "Oh, there he is..."

Makoto's breath halts in his throat. "And...?"

"Looks like he signed out for the weekend. He won't be back until tomorrow morning's check-ins."

Something somewhere shatters. Though Makoto can't hear it, it feels like it's right there in his chest. His eyes watering, he manages a weak, "thank you for checking," before trudging off dejectedly.

Outside, the morning air is calm and without wind yet still unpleasant and cold against Makoto's skin. He pulls his hoodie closer to his body and sidesteps a small group of students—probably first years—loitering out in front of the building. They're probably rendezvousing to go hang out and nothing more, but he can't shake the feeling they're judging him, probably wondering why this outsider is on their school grounds. Maybe a few of them recognize him from previous joint practices.

Maybe they'll run off and tell Seijuurou.

Frustration and disappointment well up inside of him. That's what he deserves, he figures. His face contorts, almost in pain. He can't look at them.

He's able to look at something besides his feet moving below him only when he's sure he's beyond the main gates. There's still a small trickle of students ambling around the outside perimeter of the campus, all of them wearing the distinctive black and white colors of Samezuka's uniforms. Thankfully, none of them sport red hair.

Except for the lean and muscular tall figure coming up to the same crosswalk from Makoto's right. His hair is definitely red and he is definitely not who Makoto wants to see right now. 

Makoto gasps sharply, too loudly maybe, and spins around, intent on walking the long way back to train station.

He doesn't make it. 

"Makoto?"

Sometimes, he hates being so tall.

With a defeated sigh, he slowly turns back around and tries not to let his broad shoulders slump too much. The smile on his face is weak and cracked, just like his voice when he fake-chirps, "Rin! Good morning! Fancy seeing you here."

"I can say the same to you." Rin squints an eye nearly shut. "What're you doing way out here?"

"I was just...in the neighborhood. I'm heading home now," Makoto says quickly.

"The station's the other way." As if retracing the steps of his words, Rin's face softens and he adds, lightly, "unless you're going back to Samezuka?"

God no. 

Makoto shakes his head. "N-No. I'm not going back."

"Oh, so you were there just now." 

When he spots the self-satisfied half-smirk gracing Rin's lips, Makoto winces, realizing he can't hide anything from him. 

The crosswalk light changes from red to green. Pedestrians hurry across the intersection. And Makoto's smile finally breaks beneath Rin's suspicious glare. "I just need to go back to Iwatobi."

Instead of gloating in his small victory, Rin just hooks his thumb behind him. "Come on, this way," is all he says before he crosses the street, forcing Makoto to follow after him. 

Rin's pace is swift but not hurried, like he's subconsciously bettering himself through everything that isn't exercise. Makoto wonders if it's his own doing or a product of Seijuurou's training at Samezuka. And just thinking of the redhead makes his own legs feel heavier. He slows down.

Rin is so far ahead of him, he has to stop and turn and wait for him to catch up. "Okay, I know you're not _that_ out of shape," he mutters when they're finally at the train station, his hands on his hips. "Mind telling me what's _really_ going on?"

Makoto bends, hands on his knees as he struggles to catch his breath and pretends he doesn't hear Rin. It only works for about a second—for all his efforts to supposedly remain cool and detached from the everyday drama of their teeanged seaside-town lives, Rin's pretty up-to-date.

"What's going on between you and buchou?" 

It's the tan and red elephant in the room and Makoto can't ever hope to downplay the way his head snaps up quicker than a whip or the way his eyes widen.

But he tries anyway, even if it's pointless. "Hah? Wh-what do you mean? There's nothing going—"

"Oh come off it, Makoto. I was born during the day but not yesterday," Rin snarls. "You were on Samezuka grounds on a Sunday morning but you didn't come by to see me. Not to mention, buchou's crazy sister came by like two weeks ago, asking which one of us was Makoto. So either you're dating her, or—"

"I'm not," Makoto murmurs weakly.

Rin rolls his eyes and says, "Okay." He shifts and tilts his head, expectantly. "So...?"

Head bowed, Makoto fiddles with the string of his hooded sweatshirt. He's wincing, already feeling Rin's red eyes digging holes through him. "I can't—it's nothing now, so I wouldn't worry about it..."

Of course, Rin isn't much in the mood for believing anything. He sighs. "I doubt it's nothing," he mutters. "But whatever it is that you do have going on, make sure you settle it. And fast. I'm tired of having to tell him to back off."

Makoto looks up again, quicker this time, his eyebrows furrowed. "Back off?"

Did Seijuurou move on?

"I didn't want to say anything because it's stupid and it sounds like it's straight out of one of those dramas Gou's obsessed with," Rin shoves his hands into his pockets and lets his shoulders slump, "but buchou's been spewin' towards me lately, and accused me of being dishonorable towards you and Haru..." His voice softening, he scuffs his shoe into the ground. "Told me I shouldn't ruin your happiness, or some shit. I don't know, it was weird. Came out of nowhere."

No, not nowhere. Makoto's mind instantly travels back to the other day, the day of the joint practice, when Seijuurou saw him with Haru at Lawson's. Storming out of Mos Burger alone with Haru later that night probably didn't help to maintain a "we're so not dating" image.

This is all one big and stupid misunderstanding. Rin's right. It _is_ like some TV drama.

Rin fishes out his phone, fiddles with it as he speaks. "He's strange but his heart's in the right place. He's left Gou alone, hasn't even mentioned her these past few weeks. I thought he'd finally found someone."

He looks over at Makoto and Makoto's cheeks flare. Then there's a soft buzz and chime in Makoto's pocket, just as Rin puts his own phone away. 

Makoto blinks and skims over the text.

_1-2-1 Kamiosaki, Iwatobi-cho_

There's a sudden, choking noise in the air between them and Makoto faintly recognizes it as his own voice. He looks up after several moments of staring, not blinking, at his screen.

"You came to see him, right? So go see him." Rin sounds nonchalant, though Makoto easily spots the beginnings of a smile pushing his lips together and loosening the tight crease of his brow.

"Rin..."

"Just make sure it doesn't get back to— _oi_ , Makoto! Not in the middle of—! Stop it, you're hugging too tight—!"  
 

    
\--  
   
   
   
The Mikoshiba family home sits on the end of a row of similar looking houses in a working-class neighborhood of Iwatobi. They're all two-stories high and, as Makoto approaches from across the street, rather narrow. Everything about the block is narrow, even. The road, the spaces between the houses. But somehow, it all looks cozy. Still, Makoto briefly imagines what it must have been like for Seijuurou—tall and spry Seijuurou—to grow up in such a contained place. It fills his chest with something nice and warm once he starts imagining himself living somewhere similar. With him.

Any and all hope to back away has been dashed the moment he spots Jun's red Yaris parked in the tiny carport in front. Just seeing it there makes his insides spasm, his palms sweaty. Makoto stares at the doorbell, at the nameplate just below it. Mikoshiba.

Tasting the salt on his upper lip, he takes a deep breath in, musters the courage, and—

"God damn it!"

The tip of his finger veers off course, barely grazes the buzzer. Then there's Jun coming out from the narrow space that separates this house from the next, dragging along a garbage bag and kicking it and muttering more curses at it when it doesn't budge. It's large and filled with nothing but empty cans of Red Bull.

She spots Makoto and just like that, she's a shadow of her expletive-shouting self, all sunshine and rainbows. "Oh! Hi, Makoto-kun!"

"Ah, hello, Jun-san. Allow me." Without waiting, Makoto moves to help her with the stubborn bag, stuffing it into a recycling bin.

"Did the other angels send you on ahead? Or did Sei-chan do something really good? Because seriously." Jun laughs softly, but then her mirth fades the next instant, as if she realizes it's probably inappropriate. "But, oh. Sei-chan's not here right now..."

It's not quite a kick to the gut but Makoto still flinches all the same. "Will he be home soon?" he asks and wishes the lump forming in his throat won't crack his voice too much.

Jun wrings her hands. "He didn't talk to you yet, did he?"

Makoto shakes his head. Should he have talked to him already? He doesn't know how these things work. 

Jun growls, mumbling to herself, "I'm going to kill that little..."

Makoto tries not to think of how anyone can call Seijuurou little while mulling over ways to kill him but figures if there's anyone that can, it's Jun. Which means... "You know where he is, don't you?"

Because it's not a matter of Jun not knowing—she does. For all their bickering and name-calling, they're close. Makoto can tell.

Like Rin before her, Jun sighs and caves in. "I think you already know, too, Makoto-kun. It's Sunday..."

Makoto nods. He does know now. "...can I trouble you for a ride?"

"Hop in and buckle up."  
   
   
\--  
   
Jun, Makoto learns, is every bit a crazy driver as her brother. 

They get to Sport Zero in record time. The parking brake makes a cranking noise of finality, as if sealing the deal on what it is Makoto's about to do.

Makoto reminds himself to exhale and unlocks the door, his fingers already twitching. Jun pats him encouragingly on the shoulder. "Go get 'im, tiger."

He finds Seijuurou inside the store, as expected, staring at rows of dull industrial bottles of shampoo. He's wearing the same black outfit from weeks ago when they first encountered each other in this very aisle. Unlike the tall and laid-back captain he was back then, his posture now is rigid and taciturn, and there's something distant—and distinctly unlike Seijuurou—about it all that makes Makoto's throat tight. 

A shaky breath later, he stands a row away and plays over his plan of action for the tenth time in his head: Makoto taking the one, two, three quiet steps necessary to get into the empty spot beside Seijuurou; Makoto offering a soft and coy _Ahoy there!_ to get his attention, followed by Seijuurou gasping then smiling wide in surprise; Makoto apologizing for everything he has and hasn't done. It all ends with the two of them wandering off into the sunset over Iwatobi's coastline. Or towards the nearest love hotel.

Only, Makoto doesn't make it to the third step when a sharp bass cuts him off. Seijuurou doesn't even lift or turn his head. "Jun sent you, didn't she?" he asks, without preamble.

His plan in shambles and most of his resolve scattered along with it, Makoto licks his lips. "No."

He waits for another question or a demand to explain himself, but Seijuurou falls back into silence and peruses through more shampoo bottles, and Makoto's not sure if he should be relieved or offended.

Minutes tick by in a heavy hush. Finally, Makoto breaks their silence. "We need to talk," he says.

He's half expecting Seijuurou to just start walking away. He's upset at something, has been since the day of the joint practice, and Makoto's convinced it'd serve him right for the redhead to ignore him for the rest of his life. But things will never be truly comfortable again if he does that—Seijuurou's got to know that. Makoto can practically feel everything teetering on the edge of the chasm that has suddenly cropped up between them.

The terrible waiting seems to last for hours before Seijuurou finally turns around to him, his expressive eyebrows neutral across his proud forehead, and Makoto nearly breathes a sigh of relief. Though as he gets closer, he realizes Seijuurou isn't looking at him, not directly.

"So," he starts, voice low, "talk."

"I'm sorry," Makoto blurts out. 

Seijuurou makes some noise. A snort, maybe.

"I said I'm sorry. About the other day, by Lawson's." Makoto moves to bow deeply in apology; Seijuurou's hand shoots out to his shoulder, stopping him. "With Haru. I want to explain about him..."

"You don't have to."

But he does. "Haru and I aren't together. We never were. He's my dearest friend but I don't want to be with him."

"You did nothing wrong, okay?" Seijuurou says, pretending he didn't hear him, voice rumbling like an approaching storm, but he doesn't sound angry, or even resigned. His tone almost lacks any inflection at all. His fingers aren't tight but there is a commanding pressure there on Makoto's shoulder. 

"Yes I did!"

Seijuurou retracts his hand like it's just been doused in hot water. A few other shoppers look their way but so far, no one's come to ask them to leave. There's that, at least.

_No_ , Makoto decides, he's not going to stop. He didn't endure a ride at breakneck speeds only for things to be dismissed like this. He moves to stand directly in front of Seijuurou when the redhead turns his gaze away. "I've been assuming things about you—about _us_. I ignored your calls the other day, and—"

"Tachibana," Seijuurou starts, his voice hushed out of respect for the other shoppers around them. "It's not necessary."

Tachibana. 

He wants them back on a family name basis. So cool and distant and detached, next he's probably going to suggest all further communication between them should just go through the Matsuokas.

It sounds like he's trying to increase the distance between by minimalizing things. Normally Makoto would oblige—confrontations like this are better left to people like Rin or even Rei. But now it feels like his heart is beating in his throat and he's worried it won't let up, not until he stops Seijuurou from steering things in the wrong direction.

"Seijuurou," Makoto murmurs, "please don't do this."

Seijuurou looks at him sharply, his eyes wild with disbelief. If it weren't for the adrenaline coursing through him, Makoto probably'd faint by now. And maybe that would be for the best, because it feels like the weight of Seijuurou's stare is too heavy for him to hold for much longer, and it grows heavier with each passing moment.

An announcement reminding all customers, new and loyal alike, about this week's sales rings out over the intercom. And still nothing from Seijuurou, who turns away and looks down at his feet, his profile to Makoto.

Makoto's lower lip starts to tremble. _Please say something._

One golden eye shifts to the corner to gaze upon Makoto, before he looks down again. His lips part. "Meet me out back, by the fences."  
   
   
   
\--

 

   
This isn't how Makoto imagined things would turn out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew of the possibility that his plans to apologize and maybe confess might derail, considering Seijuurou's "free as the wind" mentality.

He didn't think it'd be quite like this. 

He didn't think he'd be in the mostly-empty back lot of a store, beneath the shade of a large tree, and feeling like he wants to stay and run.

Is there a way to do this? Does he just wait and listen to what Seijuurou has to say and that's it?

Makoto's always heard that the worst anyone can say to a confession is 'no.' Except now he knows that's not true. No matter what happens, everything's going to change. And he's terrified of it. 

_Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained_ , Coach Sasabe once said when Makoto was twelve and had admitted he was more than a little scared to swim towards the deep end of the pool. Coach was right back then. Maybe he's right now.

Seijuurou comes from around the corner, all one hundred eighty-seven centimeters of him, and the strength threatens to leave Makoto's legs.

Maybe not.

Seijuurou's not carrying any bags or boxes, no purchases made, and in the brief trip from the back door to the tree, his hands go from buried in his pockets to balled up into fists at his sides to, finally, settling loosely against his hips. It's a slight comfort to Makoto, knowing the other captain's even the slightest bit nervous.

"So," Seijuurou says in that earthy drawl of his. "I guess I'm supposed to admit I fucked up now, huh?"

No, no, _no_. Makoto panics. "You didn't—"

Seijuurou shakes his head, calmly. "Nah, it's true. That night at the burger joint? I fucked up, I know I did. Royally."

Makoto watches as Seijuurou distracts himself with a shiny looking pebble found on the ground, but his true focus is on Seijuurou's throat and the mesmerizing way it bobs when he swallows down his own nervousness. "When I saw you and Nanase-kun... I became angry. At least, that's what I thought I was feeling at the time, even though I didn't even know _why_. Took me cutting practice and morning class and an entire night after being a pure asshole to think about it. It was bad."

Rather than interject with anything, Makoto stays quiet, and Seijuurou continues. "Turns out, I wasn't angry." 

With whip-sharp accuracy, Seijuurou throws the pebble but doesn't watch as it plinks off the bumper of a parked car. He glances back toward the way he came. "Nevermind, I can't do this. Forget it."

Makoto's losing him again, just like back in the store. "N-No. You can do it..."

"Nothing's going to come of this anyway, right? I mean, we don't even know each other."

It's likely not his intention to sound so cold, or maybe it is. Whatever it is, it makes the blood in Makoto's vein run cold. He looks at the pronounced Adam's apple, sees it move with more tension. "...do you really think that?"

And then Seijuurou shrugs. 

He fucking shrugs.

Helpless anger shoots through Makoto and for a terrible moment, all he can remember are Jun's words from the day they were at the service station, talking about Seijuurou.

Then, without a second thought, Makoto steps bravely and resolutely forward. 

And tweaks Seijuurou's ear.

Nothing sharp or malicious, just a little quirk he's seen mothers do to their children at the playground. It's enough. 

Seijuurou howls out in pain, his hand cupping protectively over his ear as he looks at Makoto like a man possessed. "What the hell, Makoto! What was that for?!"

Although he feels terrible and guilty for doing so, Makoto can't ignore the little surge of hope upon hearing his name—and not his family name—on Seijuurou's lips. All of Seijuurou's coolness is just an act. Knowing that, he feels less apprehensive about moving forward. About _being_ forward.

"I'm sorry, but you're wrong."

Seijuurou deflates almost comically. "Huh?"

"I know you, Seijuurou," Makoto says, a touch too loud. If they weren't alone, surely people would be looking at them—at him—strangely. Seijuurou's doing a fine job of that on his own.

Undeterred, Makoto looks at him, directly. Green meeting gold. "I know that you secretly like Girls' Generation and you're scared of clowns and you have a major sweet tooth and you like old movies," he starts, voice shaky. "I know that you're a terrible and scary driver and you don't even have your license—"

Seijuurou pales and looks around frantically, hoping no one heard that.

"—but I ride along with you anyway because..."

The breath is starting to leave Makoto's lungs a lot quicker than it should and he inhales deeply in an effort to calm himself. To prepare himself. "Because even if it's scary, what scares me more than that is knowing there's a chance I wouldn't be able to do those things with you anymore."

No one's laughing or calling him names. It's just Makoto and Seijuurou, alone, together. Somehow, this is scarier than any alternative could be. Except it's the good kind of scary now. Not like facing the deep end of the pool for the first time. 

He feels his eyes starting to water and he blinks and wipes at them furiously. "I—I know I'm a wimp and a coward, and I'm not Kou. I don't know if this will take us anywhere. I don't know a lot of things, but I know what kind of person you really are. Which...which is somebody I hope to be." 

There's adrenaline coursing through him and he's shaking. He's scared even now. There's sweat at the base of his back where his shirt clings. But like a dam breaking, he can't stop. "And I know I want to watch movies with you. I want to buy you sweets and that special chlorine-shampoo." His face burns. Everywhere feels like it's burning, actually, but he feels it more over his cheeks. "I want you to give me more massages. I want to do things for you. I want..."

It isn't until he takes a deep breath in and releases that the mountain of energy inside him finally crumbles, leaving him exhausted. His voice is thick, barely audible. "I kind of just...want to be with you."

Sometime during what Makoto's sure to look back on as the craziest thing he's ever done (if he makes it through this day), Seijuurou's sidled up closer to him. Close enough that Makoto doesn't have to open his tightly shut eyes—he can feel the heat radiating off his face, the shakiness in his hands as they come up to his shoulders.

"Look at me."

"I'm sorry, I—"

" _Makoto_. Look at me."

Despite his every wish not to, Makoto can't very well resist a command like that. He looks up through his lashes. Seijuurou's standing so close, he can see his jaw flexing.

"You are the bravest man that I know. And whatever you want from me...it's yours, alright?"

Makoto's mouth opens to protest. Halfway through the effort, Seijuurou's words dawn on him and leave him stunned in silence, mouth hanging open.

_Whatever you want._

"Are you...sure?" 

Seijuurou laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world and nudges their foreheads together once his laughter dies down into a pleased hum. There's a pearl of wetness at the corner of both eyes that Makoto can't help noticing. He doesn't bring it up, though. He's too happy and confused and shocked and unsure.

It's a good feeling, he decides. 

"After something like _that_ , why wouldn't I be? You shouldn't be so surprised." 

"I...don't see how I should not be," Makoto murmurs, shyly looking down then up. "I've never said anything like that to anyone before. I don't even know where it came from..."

Seijuurou 'mms' in thought. "It doesn't matter, you were the first one of us to say something of it. And you set the bar for it pretty damn high. Me? I just tried to pretend it wasn't there."

"'It'?"

"This." Seijuurou dimples, finger pointing between the both of them. "I don't know what to call it. I just know that it's ours."

Relief settles over Makoto and his shoulders shake violently. It feels like a sob is coming on. Instead, it's a laugh. And a loud one—a snorting one at that. "I can't believe this—I'm..." 

"Taken?"

Makoto shakes his head. "No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't..." He laughs and shakes his head, rubbing their foreheads together some more. 

"I get the idea," Seijuurou murmurs. "But I meant what I said. Anything you want, it's yours."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Makoto knows why, or thinks he knows why, but after the day's whirlwind of emotions, he's feeling a little self-indulgent.

Without skipping a beat, Seijuurou obliges him, mouth set in a wide, confident grin. "Because that's what boyfriends do."

It feels like even his heart's smiling.

Then his spine pushing against the metal grates of the fence. Seijuurou's eyes are so warm and golden, like honey, and they're focused on his mouth. Makoto likes that. He also likes that he doesn't have to bend down or even stand on his tiptoes. Just a slight upwards tilt of his head and—

"There you are! I thought the earth opened up and swallowed you both whole."

It's Jun. Of course. 

They pull apart from each other and regain their bearings, come back down to ground-level with everyone else. Makoto's the first to recover: "You...didn't hear all of that just now, did you?"

"Just enough."

Hearing her now, a tiny voice in the back of Makoto's mind wishes the earth did swallow them both. 

Face so red, it looks like it might actually bruise even through his tan, Seijuurou rounds on her, teeth bared. "Baba! You ruined everything!"

"Oh, please," Jun scoffs, unbothered, "at the rate you two emotional slugs move, I doubt it." She pauses, then jabs her finger into her brother's arm. "And I told you to stop calling me that!"

But she doesn't look as angry as she sounds. In fact, she's looking between them, noticing their proximity, and smiles. It's a brief smile, very knowing and suggestive from the way her eyebrow tilts. Then she's letting out an acquiescing sigh. "Alright, _fine_. I was going to put my foot down on the blatant law-breaking but then you two...whatever. You can take my car."

Makoto blinks. "...where are we going?"

Seijuurou smiles. It's eerie how it perfectly matches the one Jun was sporting not a minute earlier. "I have an idea."

   
\--

 

Their second visit to the classic movie theater is, mostly, a repeat of their first. They're seeing the same movie and the busybody box-office clerk is there, giving them both approving nods, especially when their hands don't unloop from their ironclad hold. The portly movie fanboy is there, too and Seijuurou gave him a friendly wave in greeting, to which the hipster scoffed and looked back at the screen. 

This time, however, Seijuurou nuzzles Makoto's neck between scenes of dialogue they've already seen the first time around. They're holding hands, and not very discreetly, and they're sharing fruit punch through the same straw again. They feed each other strawberry Milktani candies and Meiji Rich Banana Biscuits—apparently, smuggling food into a theater is just a part of a new tradition Seijuurou's keen on holding up.

As promised, Seijuurou alerts Makoto when the shower scene starts and covers his ears from him and tells him when it's safe to look up again.

Psycho is just as good the second time, Makoto decides, and it's not long before he's settled and once again drawn into the mysterious story surrounding Norman Bates and the now-murdered Marion Crane.

The detective, Arbogast, is starting to poke around the main house behind the motel on-screen when Makoto starts to shiver and Seijuurou, noticing, leans in and nuzzles his temple.

"Hey," he murmurs.

Makoto tears his gaze away from the black-and-white screen. "Mm?"

"You're scared of these movies, yet you'll still watch them with me? Why is that?"

Makoto blushes and watches Arbogast walk up a flight of creaky steps. "You always tell me to live a little..."

Seijuurou smirks and leans back in his seat. "Good to know."

Makoto almost questions him about that but then a door on-screen opens a crack and like before, there's a startling screech of violins and a butcher knife being raised over someone's head—

Makoto opens his mouth to scream but Seijuurou swiftly moves in and silences him with a kiss. He seizes up in a mixture of delight and shock, hands flailing a little before coming to rest a bit awkwardly on Seijuurou's shoulders. 

Seijuurou's the one to pull away first, after who knows how many moments of tasting the fruit punch in their mouths had gone by. "Sorry," he offers, lamely, and not looking the least bit apologetic about it.

Fury should be the first thing on Makoto's mind. "You did that—all of this... On purpose!"

"Sorry," Seijuurou offers again, this time looking like he very well means it.

Which is good, because he isn't prepared for when Makoto all but crushes their lips together a second time. 

The rest of the movie passes by them in a blur, though neither of them seem to care. 

There's always next time.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That certainly took forever, didn't it? Please tell me your thoughts.
> 
> Thanks to everyone here and on tumblr for your support. Without you guys, this wouldn't have been possible. A special thanks to dettsu (for your wonderful fanart and flailings—please visit her tumblr @ http://dettsu.tumblr.com you won't regret it!), Tawnyport (for your help and willingness to share headcanon and all things wonderful), and scars-of-fate/Ran Kuruta (for your insight on the parts of this chapter where I had problems). And everyone else that's dropped me a line! <3
> 
>  
> 
> If you've made it to this part, then I have to both congratulate and thank you for putting up with my little endeavor here. :)


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